Are we more than we can recall?
Well-recognized is repressed trauma, scars without a cause
Pain slipped into the void, yet retained even in its loss
Forgotten stories compose our lives, yet not all of them bitter tragedies
How much does the empty space on a page produce the shape drawn within it?

What of our dusty childhood dreams, obscured by layers of maturing years?
What of enrapturing beauty, uncaptured and so lost to time?
What of the spontaneous laughters, the daily smiles, the banal joys of the every day?
What of the kindness of a stranger, a day made, one among a sea of endless days?
What of you, your name hovering just on the tip of my memory, your face a warm blur?
What of this moment, of any moment, charming but unmemorable?
When I am old and my mind derelict, my life a collection of forgotten moments, will their shadows linger?
How many have forgotten me now, their lives shaped by my own faded contribution?
I content myself with my own annihilation, knowing the ripples of my life will be carried forward without me

A toast, then!
To what? I’m not sure
Its value uncertain; its impact eluding
But I am what I am, built on something I don’t all remember

Here’s to our phantom influences, may their silent echoes continue to reverberate, no longer unsung!